Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (5 page)

Jose Santoro, our part-time custodian, beckoned me from the service door. We walked outside together, around the back. The AC compressor sat on a concrete pad near the wall. It rattled in an uneven cycle, pitching up and down with a metallic knocking that I recognized from last year.

I groaned. “Not again.”

“Sorry, Señor Doctor,” Jose said. “Is no good. Is broken.”

“We can’t afford a new system now.” Even if the cost had remained the same as last year’s replacement quote, it would wipe out the synagogue’s meager financial reserve and require borrowing on top of it. We had managed to keep the AC going another year, but here we were again. “Is Mat Warnick here?”

Jose nodded. “I see truck in parking lot.”

“You’re a good man.”

He smiled, showing a cracked front tooth. We “shared” Jose with a church down the street, paying him cash for half-time while getting more than full-time from him. Other than Jose, the two congregations had little contact.

“
I’ll call Mat Warnick.” Heading back inside, I prepared myself for unpleasantness. A hardworking man didn’t come to the synagogue with his wife and kids expecting to be asked to work in the outdoor heat while everyone else celebrated the New Year Eve service.

I found Mat in the prayer hall, wearing a pressed shirt and a tie, seated with his twins, one on each side, reading to them from a children holiday book. I heard his son ask, “And when will the rabbi blow the shofar?” It reminded me how Debra had always been excited at hearing the ram’s horn.

“Happy New Year!” I shook Mat’s hand.

“
And to you.” He let go of my hand and buried his eyes in the book. “Don’t even ask.”

“
How did you know?”

He pointed at an air vent overhead. “How do you know when a patient’s blood flow is screwy?”

“
Take a quick look, that’s all. Maybe it’s just a loose bolt, or a hose.”

“
There are three hundred heating-and-cooling guys in the yellow pages. Can’t you call one of them?”

I knew Mat couldn’t say no, so I just waited.

“
Pretend I’m not here.”

I couldn’t do that, so I asked, “How is your brother doing?”

Mat gave me a look that said:
Not fair!

Jonathan Warnick, a healthy communications specialist in the U.S. Army, had come back from Afghanistan with multiple internal injuries. Neglectful with his medications, he developed blood clots, and I operated on him in the last minute. But he was back at the hospital a month later with a stomach full of sleeping pills. I spent the night with Mat and their elderly mother until Jonathan’s condition turned around and had visited him every day during weeks of psychiatric treatment. A year later, we all danced together at his wedding to a nurse from the psych floor, who made him add an extra marriage vow:
I shall never try to kill myself again.

“My baby brother is the new king of Silicon Valley,” Mat said, getting to his feet. “His company is preparing for an IPO. You should call him up, ask for a donation. A new cooling system maybe?”

Jonathan had started a website while still in the hospital—VetBestMate.com—which had become the largest singles site for veterans and those who want to date them.

Marching up the aisle with clenched fists, Mat said, “I’m doing it for you, Rusty, but it’s not fair!”

“
You’re right, and I really appreciate it.” What else could I say? If the AC died now, the prayer hall would quickly heat up to match the oppressive temperature outdoors, when the parched rocks and mass of urban concrete released all the accumulated heat of a long day. Then our celebration of Rosh Hashanah Eve would turn into something resembling the Israelites’ escape from Egypt.

“
If your home system broke, I’d come to fix it anytime, day or night.” He pushed the exit door open, and a wave of heat slapped us. “But this is not your home!”

“
This is our spiritual home.” I patted his shoulder. “And I’ll call Jonathan tomorrow. Promise.”

Jose had already removed the metal grate. Mat crouched by the spinning steel fan, peered at the contraption underneath, and shook his head. “I need my toolbox,” he said.

Flushed from the outside heat, I came down the middle aisle, pausing briefly to say hello to friends and their relatives, and mounted the three steps to the dais. As president of the congregation, I always sat during services in a tall chair between Rabbi Rachel and Cantor Bentov.

The rabbi, in a white pantsuit and a gold-embroidered prayer shawl, a white skullcap pinned to her curly hair, welcomed me with a big smile and open armed. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for Debra—she’s such a special girl!”

“
I feel terrible about the Orthodox thing.” I embraced her. “Rebecca and I would much prefer that you conduct the ceremony, but the young couple already made their own—”

“
Don’t be silly. It’s a big
simcha
, a cause for happiness.”

I could tell she was hurt. Despite countless match-making efforts by the congregation’s sisterhood, our rabbi had remained single. Perhaps her scholarly demeanor or ecumenical position had intimidated the men. Now in her late forties, Rabbi Rachel seemed to have accepted her singlehood, even embrace it. She often spoke of the members of the congregation as her family and of the members’ children, whom she had taught in Sunday school, as her children.

“
We just heard today,” I said. “It’s a complete shock. We’ve never even met the boy. Once we can discuss the whole thing with Debra alone, she could still change her mind about the type of ceremony. And the location. What’s better than Scottsdale in December? It is, after all, the bride’s parents who traditionally throw a wedding party, right?”

“
That would be nice, but I advise against pressuring Debra in any way.”

“
Why?”

“
A good marriage must be founded in harmony, not conflict. I completely understand her choice.”

“
You do?”

“
She loves him, and therefore she loves his Orthodox tradition.”

“
And our tradition?”

“
God is our tradition.” Gesturing around, Rabbi Rachel explained. “All of us are created in God’s image. Our tradition is to be tolerant and inclusive. With time, I’m certain that Debra will share this tradition with her husband.”

Relieved, I asked, “But you’ll attend the wedding, though?”

“
I would have liked to—”

“
We’ll pay for the flight and hotel, of course.”

“
Thank you, Rusty. That’s very kind.” She pressed my hand. “You and Rebecca are always in my heart, and I share in your happiness as if Debra is my daughter too. Nevertheless, I think it’s better that I don’t attend.”

This wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. “Why not?”

“
My presence at the wedding would put Debra in an awkward position.”

“
Why?”

Rabbi Rachel smiled. “Perhaps you underestimate how deeply the Orthodox rabbis object to the idea of a female rabbi. Think of it as a bull fight, with me as the red cloth.”

It wasn’t my place to argue with the rabbi, but I thought she was exaggerating. “You’ll attend as our guest. Why should there be any problem with that?”

“
You’ll have to trust me on this. The officiating rabbi will insist that I stay behind the partition with all the other women, and Debra will feel guilty. Our sages wrote that rejoicing a bride on her wedding day is the most important mitzvah. Nothing should cloud her happiness. In fact, it would be a sin for me to attend.”

The rabbi’s thoughtfulness had led her to this logical conclusion, but it clearly pained her. There was a forced undertone to her voice. She had been with us through every family event in over two decades, whether it involved joy or mourning. How could we celebrate a wedding without her? “What if I let you walk her down the aisle in my place? Is that a strong enough enticement to attend?”

Rabbi Rachel laughed. “They haven’t told you yet, have they?”

“
Told me what?”

“
In an Orthodox wedding, the two mothers accompany the bride to the chuppah, and the two fathers walk with the groom.” She must have seen the disappointment on my face and added, “We’ll have a big party when they come to Arizona. It’ll be a lot more fun than Brooklyn.”

My mind swirled with this hurtful piece of information. How could I not walk my daughter down the aisle? Scanning the prayer hall for Rebecca, I located her in a circle of friends. Would this be news to her? She had grown up Orthodox and probably knew of this custom. And from the few Orthodox weddings we had attended together over the years, I recalled that none of them had the formality of a typical American wedding. They were rambunctious affairs, held in large halls that were partitioned between men and women, and the guests crowded around the chuppah canopy, trying to get a glimpse of the marriage ceremony.

The rabbi stepped down from the dais to shake hands and greet members of the congregation. Rebecca finally caught my eye and waved. I waved back. My wife’s response, no doubt, would be to accept reality and make the best of it. And she would be correct. What could we do but go along with Debra’s wishes? Twisting her arm, even if we were successful, would only cause resentment and interfere with our harmonious happiness at this once-in-a-lifetime event of our only daughter’s wedding. I comforted myself that at least we would be standing next to Debra under the chuppah while everyone else had to push and shove for a good spot.

With a few more minutes to kill, I sat in the president’s chair next to the Torah ark. Ours wasn’t the usual cabinet-type ark, but rather a hollow space in the east wall, where three Torah scrolls were kept behind a pair of stunning doors made of coarse mesquite logs bound in strips of Arizona palm fronds. The doors had originally been conceived for the grand entrance to a Paradise Valley mansion, but the artist, Judy Levy, had quarreled with her client, who didn’t like the three-foot-long door handles that had previously known life as rattlesnakes. They were “scary and unwelcoming,” the client had complained, a concern Judy pooh-poohed as “artistic provincialism.” After back-and-forth arguments over the effectiveness of plasticating rattlers and defanging venomous critters, the client paid Judy in full and walked away from his doors. She told us the story during a synagogue board meeting, and when the laughter died down, I suggested she donate the doors for the Torah ark. She agreed, and thankfully her creative vision for the Torah ark was less reptilian. She substituted the controversial handles with two halves of a giant Star of David, composed of linked miniature scrolls—meticulously made of epoxy-hardened shreds of actual calf-parchment, the same material used for a Torah scroll. Three months ago, Judy and Jose mounted the doors over the Torah ark, using oversized hinges she had found in an old copper mine near Tucson.

My Blackberry chimed with a reminder. It was 7 p.m., and as president I was about to deliver the annual state of the synagogue address
on behalf of the board of trustees, a tradition that signaled the end of the Jewish year.

Rabbi Rachel returned to the dais and signaled Cantor Bentov, who banged on the lectern three times and roared, “The president of the King Solomon Synagogue! All rise!”

No one heeded him. They couldn’t rise because they hadn’t yet sat down, too busy catching up on a year’s worth of gossip.

I approached the podium and waited. The rows of seats formed succeeding crescents, all the way to the back of the Prayer Hall, filled with familiar faces, men and women I had known for many years, with their children and elderly parents. I whistled into the microphone, and the chattering quieted down. Halfway across the hall, Aaron Brutsky, my hospital colleague and vice president of the synagogue, tapped on his watch and said something that made his neighbors laugh.

“
Next year,” I said, my voice booming from the loudspeakers, “our esteemed vice president will give the annual speech, so remember to bring your pillows.”

Aaron buried his face in his hands while people clapped. When quietness returned, all the way to my right Larry Emanuel yelled, “No more jokes until after Yom Kippur!”

“
Larry is right.” I raised my hands in surrender. “My new year’s resolution is to join the local chapter of Humorous Anonymous.”

My announcement won cheers.

I took a deep breath and said, “On behalf of the board of trustees of the King Solomon Synagogue, I would like to wish our rabbi, our cantor, and all of you a Happy Rosh Hashanah.”

The congregation chorused, “Happy Rosh Hashanah!”

“
Tonight we begin the Ten Days of Awe, the culmination of our relationship with God. It’s like an annual physical, but rather than seeing your doctor for a medical checkup, you undergo a spiritual checkup. On the upside, this procedure involves no sharp needles or poky fingers.”

They uttered a collective groan. In the rear, the door opened and Mat entered. He walked to his seat, giving me a quick thumbs-up.

I sighed in relief. “Winning God’s grace,” I said, “is the challenge we face. It’s written that on Rosh Hashanah God inscribes a preliminary judgment for each one of us, and ten days later, on Yom Kippur, He reaches a final decision and lands His fateful seal:
Who is innocent, and who is guilty, who shall live, and who shall die.
The question is simple. How can we improve our chances before the divine judge?”